At the Beginning
by TopazOwl
Summary: There were two things Arby was certain of: one, Sherlock Holmes was an arse; fictional detective or not. And two, she had to find a way home soon - before she lost her sanity.
1. A Wrinkle in Time

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes nor am I associated with the following: Cambridge University, and Doctor Who.

**Chapter one: A Wrinkle in Time**

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_"Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together in their minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass. There are few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led up to that result. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning backward, or analytically."_ -A Study in Scarlet, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

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**2 April 2011, Cambridge, England**

"My brain is going to combust if I have to turn one more page of this bloody textbook." I paused, expecting a response. "Cooper? Are you listening?"

"Don't panic, I have everything under control!"

The revolting aroma of burning toast brought my nose out of the textbook I had been painstakingly going through to take notes. I looked just in time to see my flat mate running around the kitchen divider and cursing colorfully as she slipped across the floor in her socks. In the background flames started to crawl up the side of the toaster, a tendril of black smoke reaching for the ceiling.

"I've got it," Cooper shouted as she ripped the plug out of the wall. She popped open the little window above the sink to let the smoke out. "Right as rain."

I glanced up at the ceiling, surprised that the detector hadn't gone off. "Coop," I started, frowning. "Where's the smoke detector?"

"I didn't want to disturb you," Cooper paused to cough. She grimaced at the smell. "So, I tried to take out the batteries. I had to pull the bloody thing down, because the back wouldn't pop off. It's fine."

"Right." I leveled her with a disbelieving look. "What if there had been an actual fire?"

"Arbs, mate, would I ever forget to replace the detector?"

I looked at her pointedly.

"Okay, so I've screwed up a few times in the past."

I tried to bite back a smile, and failed.

"What's with that look? Name one time I've royally screwed up!"

"Last summer, when I was visiting mum, you left music playing at full volume when you went out for 'drinkies' with the girls. Mrs. Jones filled a report, and you were written a citation. The landlord was so upset we nearly ended up on the street."

Cooper open and closed her mouth. "Well, you were the slag that didn't help me convince the copper that he needn't file a citation."

"Yes, I do apologize." I rolled my eyes, grinning this time. "I promise to flirt with the next police person you throw my way."

Cooper's smile revealed that she knew I wasn't seriously angry with her, but she still tossed a tart "good" as she spun around to search for an edible breakfast.

I glanced down at the textbook in my hands, grin swiftly falling away. I knew I had two more chapters to go before I was done, but Cooper's toast debacle had shifted my focus elsewhere. There were only so many hours a functioning human being could take psychology text before they started pulling hair, and I was already feeling a bit like a mental patient after two hours of note-taking. Looking at the time, I mulled over the idea of leaving it off for later. I needed to pick up a couple of items at the corner shop, and I had plans for lunch with Caden a quarter after twelve…

"You've got the look again, Arb." Cooper took a seat next to me, and snatched up the telly remote before I could protest. "What you need is a mind-numbing good series, and more caffeine than is considered healthy. No buts, my camprade."

Cooper and I had been friends going on thirteen years now, and with that time there came a certain kind of knowledge only old friends have. At the age of nine my parents had agreed that a divorce was the only way to heal their marriage; my mother had kept the house in Oxfordshire, and my father had moved across the pond. The first summer of their divorce saw me staying with my father in his new swanky house in L.A., where his career in film production was blossoming. I had enjoyed the laidback California lifestyle so much that I had begged, bargained, and pleaded to stay for the upcoming school year. Whether my begging had actually worked or my mother wanted a break to be single and childless, I was allowed to enroll into a local school. It was in that local school that I met a fellow patriot, Cooper Wright. We were inseparable ever since.

I looked at the photographs that covered the wall behind the television set. Cooper had taken the photographs three years ago, when we had moved into the flat with the help of friends and family. There were group shots full of grinning faces, and Polaroid's with posed individuals. Colorful stickers and bits of tape kept the photos hanging, decorated with phrases and quotes written in my curly cursive letters. A snapshot of Cooper, one hand on a hip, and Caden with her eyebrows arched, made me smile in memory.

Caden Maddock was my second oldest friend, and probably the only person that knew me just as well as Cooper. She was sharp and sarcastic, and studying journalism at Cambridge. We had met during Year Ten during a debacle that involved a broken window, and a minor fire in the boys' loo. She lived in a swanky flat paid for by her mother, a cold and distant figure in her life. Her flat mate, Juliet, was on good terms with Cooper. Juliet and Cooper looked like polar opposites, but they were mentally on the same wavelength. I could recall many a time they had stumbled into the flat at two o'clock in the morning, giggling hysterically and pissed out of their minds. Sometimes Caden would be with them, not nearly as pissed, but smirking at their antics.

"Yo, Audrey. You're zoning out."

I shook my head, turning my thoughts back to the present. Cooper had flipped to the beginning of a Doctor Who marathon, pausing as the adverts rolled.

I was about to ask if Cooper was still hungry when my phone buzzed. I answered when I saw the name on its screen. "Good morning!"

"_Slag_! Did we not agree to meet up so we could compare notes?" Caden's voice burst through the speaker, and I winced away, turning down the volume.

"Such filthy language," I glanced at the time. "We agreed to meet a quarter after twelve, and it's not even half-past eleven."

"Yes, right, _well_. I demand you drag your arse over here right now." Caden's tone sounded less angry, and more bored than anything.

I rolled my eyes dramatically, earning a snicker from Cooper. I mimicked walking with my fingers, as I stood up, half-listening to Caden. I went into my bedroom to grab a sweater when the chime of the doorbell went off. I waited a tic to see if Cooper would get up before going to get it myself. Mentally grumbling, I marched toward the door. I had one arm going through a sleeve, the other pressing my mobile to an ear, when my right foot connected with something on the floor. I had just enough time to glance down to see my volume of The Completed Sherlock Holmes before I went tumbling hard onto my knees.

What I didn't know at the time was that Caden had just started climbing down the library steps, mobile pressed to her ear, when a passing bicyclist nearly ran her over. She had jerked back in surprise, a wordless curse forming on her lips as she stumbled backwards onto the stairs. "Oi! Watch where you are -."

And that was the last thing I heard before the world went dark.

_"Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away."_-Marcus Aurelius.

"Be careful, Doctor Watson." A voice came through the gloom. "How in heaven's name did the poor creature get inside?"

I woke in small increments to the feeling of floating. The sensation was ruined as I came into contact with the firm cushions of what I assumed to be the couch. My mind was trying to play catch-up, quickly reviewing what I could remember. I had tripped over something on the floor, a book, and then I must have gone arse over teakettle. Cooper must have called for an ambulance when I didn't immediately open my eyes, or maybe she had asked the person at the door to help lift me onto the couch.

"Who thought it would be a grand idea to leave a book lying about on the floor?" I tried to say, tongue feeling clumsy. "Your arse is mine, Wright."

"I beg your pardon, miss?"

My eyes snapped open. I looked at the two faces peering curiously at me, and then swung my gaze over my unfamiliar surroundings. The firm cushions I had mistaken for the couch turned out to be a chintz settee, its material beginning to fade in some places. On the floor nearest to the settee was a bearskin rug, stretched from hind legs to snout at the base of an empty fireplace. Cooper and I did not have a fireplace, much less a bearskin rug. We also did not have a dinning table in our living room, or a messy desk stacked high with dusty books and papers. Cooper's allergies made it impossible to skip a weekly cleaning, and the desk I saw had at least an inch-thick layer of grime. The noxious scent of gas in the air made me cringe, and that was when I caught sight of a copper lamp hanging from the ceiling. Cooper and I definitely did not have _that_ hanging from our flat's ceiling.

"Either Cooper redecorated while I was asleep, or Toto is certainly not in Kansas."

I reached to touch my throbbing forehead only to discover a goose-sized lump along my scalp. I probed at the tender area, wincing. I must have hit my head in the fall harder than I had initially thought.

The man pulled my hand away from the lump, and gently pressed a damp cloth against the tender skin. I hadn't known that any of my neighbors were doctors…

He wet his lips, about to speak when an indignant shriek cut off his words. The shriek was followed by the voice of an equally indignant female: "Stupid pointy stairs and their stupid sharp edges!"

I knew that voice!

I leapt from the settee onto rubbery legs, and made a dash in the direction the voice had come from. I went through an open doorway onto a landing, where I looked over the side of a staircase railing to see the figure at the bottom of the staircase. I felt a wave of dizziness come over me, but I still shouted down: "Caden Elizabeth Maddock, I have never been happier to see your face!"

"I would be happier to see yours if I knew where I was." Caden remained where she was slouched on the staircase, moving carefully to see if anything was broken. She cringed when she touched her ankle.

I looked over my shoulder. The man and woman had followed at my heels to see who was causing the commotion downstairs. They looked at me expectantly. "Where are we?"

They exchanged a disbelieving glance, but the man was the one to answer. "You are at 221b Baker Street. Perhaps the address rings a bell?"

I couldn't help it; I snorted. "Right. This is 221b Baker Street and you're Doctor John Watson."

"Yes, precisely so!" He grinned boyishly, his cheeks puffing out in pride. I looked at the woman.

"And you're Mrs. Hudson, the stouthearted landlady."

She gave a small, hesitant nod. "Yes, that's right."

I rolled my eyes with a good-natured smile, playing along. I had met a few diehard Sherlockians in my life, but they had never stayed in character. "And the year happens to be…?"

"Today is April the 2nd, in the year of 1884." He shared another look with his female companion, but this time it was reinforced by a frown. "You have taken an awful blow to the head. Perhaps you ought to lie back down on settee, miss…?"

"Audrey Baines." I didn't offer my hand. "I'm Audrey Baines."

"I would like to have a better look at your bump, Miss Baines." He moved around me to bend over the railing, and flashed a cautious smile at Caden. "You appear to have taken quite a fall, miss. Are you all right?"

"I'm dandy, thanks." Caden's voice was laced with sarcasm. She had been struggling with the strap of her bag when he called down to her. She finally gave up, and started to climb the stairs.

Caden and I cautiously entered the room together, our eyes meeting with identical looks of skepticism. I wanted to ask her how she had gotten here, but I knew the man was watching us. Something made me want to be cautious, and I could see that Caden felt the same way. She nudged my side with her elbow, a corner of her mouth tilting up. I would have returned the small smile if the man hadn't gestured for me to resume the seat I had vacated earlier. I sunk onto the settee, and waited for Caden to sit before I spoke.

"I have nothing against historical reenactment groups, but I would really appreciate it if you broke character to tell us where we are. I don't recognize the interior…" I trailed off when he dropped an afghan across my bare legs.

"You are in the flat 221b, residence of the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes," He kneeled in front of me, and began to survey my scalp with his fingertips. "I am Doctor John Watson."

"Right! I've had enough of that." Caden jumped up from the sofa, and made a beeline for the windows. She pushed back the curtains, and unlatched the window, pushing the glass open. Throwing a smug look over her shoulder, Caden gestured outside with a sweep of a hand. "Welcome to the 21st century, folks. Mind the gap."

I sucked in a breath, going still. Caden caught my wide-eyed stare, and swiveled to look at where my gaze was focused. "Please tell me that we're on a film set."

The open window gave a panoramic view, but what was there, or the lack thereof, was unsettling. The street was lit by dim wrought-iron lamps, but very little of the block could be seen through the shroud of fog. There were squat flats across the way, each nearly identical in likeness to the other. A set of horses attached to a four-wheeler carriage clip-clopped down the street in place of where a car might have zoomed by on a noisy engine. The driver of the carriage glanced up at the window, and he tipped his hat despite the quizzical look that came over his face. No mailboxes. No electric lights. No cable wires. No helicopters. No police sirens. The avenue was eerily quiet with the one exception of the carriage as it passed by into the enshrouding darkness.

"Are you all right?"

I stared at him, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I took at the gray waistcoat and the watch fob, and his neatly trimmed hair. I saw his sideburns for the first time, and something inside of me snapped. "All right? You're asking if I'm _all_ _right_? Are you off your trolley?"

He flinched when my voice elevated several octaves. I jerked a hand in direction of the window, scoffing disdainfully. "We're over one-hundred years in the past! No, I am not all right! I'm waiting for a camera crew to pop out of Caden's arse! I'm waiting for the Doctor's blue box to make an appearance!"

Caden made a face at me, cringing. "I feel unclean at the imagery, thanks."

"The Complete Sherlock Holmes," I blurted out, sounding hysterical. Caden's eyebrows shot up. I giggled. "I tripped over Cooper's gag gift. Bam. 221b Baker Street. Just like magic."

"Miss Baines?" He waited until I gave a jerky nod to indicate that I was listening. "Can you tell me how you are feeling? Fatigued? Headache? Any ringing in the ears?"

"I have a headache, but I feel fine otherwise." I bit into my lip, lying. I felt like I curling into a ball and having a little cry, but I knew that wasn't what he was asking. I didn't have amnesia. I was almost certain I didn't have a concussion. I felt more than a little nauseous, but who wouldn't be in my situation?

Watson patted my shoulder awkwardly, and went over to where Caden was standing. He checked her over for bumps and broken bones, murmuring similar questions as he inspected a bruise on her wrist. Caden shook her head, answering in a low voice. She allowed him to look her over without a protest, but her gaze kept wandering outside.

Watson's eyes did a little wandering, too. His gaze roved over her leather jacket, magenta skinny jeans, and stopped on her spike heels. He had already seen my gray jumper and gotten an eyeful from my skirt, which explained why he had covered my legs with the afghan. I could only assume what a Victorian thought of one young woman in skinny jeans and the other baring her legs for all and sundry to see. I glanced out of the corner of my eye to witness Mrs. Hudson's scandalized expression as she looked at Caden's ensemble.

"If it is all right with Mrs. Hudson, I think you should stay here for the night. We can sort out this whole mess after a decent night's rest." He proposed to sleep on the sofa for the night.

Mrs. Hudson agreed with him, softly explaining that Mr. Holmes was out of town. I listened to them with a strange sort of detachment, not quite believing my circumstances. Caden didn't seem to mind either way, and allowed Mrs. Hudson to lead her to Watson's bedroom. She shot me an inscrutable look over he shoulder before shutting the door behind her. I took that as my sign to retire, rising from the settee onto wobbly legs. I jerked my thumb in direction of the other door, silently asking a question. He nodded.

"Fancy this is just a dream? No?" I shook my head and smiled. "Never mind. You don't have to answer that."

I called out a quiet goodnight, but I didn't wait for a response. I fled to the other bedroom before either of them could ask if I needed any help.

The fact that I was almost certainly inside of Sherlock Holmes bedroom did not enter my mind as I located the bed at the far corner of the room. I didn't bother wasting time, shucking the shawl and climbing under the covers. It took a couple of minutes wiggling around and positioning the pillows until I found the will to remain still. My heartbeat was beating wildly against my ribcage, my lungs filling and expanding with sharp gasps of air. I might have realized I was in shock if my attention wasn't jumping from topic to topic, never finding the resolve to center on a single strand of thought.

Sherlock Holmes was the fictional creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Doctor John Watson was a literary device. 221b Baker Street never existed. So, if what I knew was true, how was I here? Hadn't scientists disproved the possibility of time travel? What about alternate dimensions and wormholes? Was this an alternate dimension? Had I fallen down a wormhole like Alice and her rabbit hole? Or was I as mad as a hatter?

I was drifting on the edge of consciousness and dreamland when the tread of footsteps outside of the door broke through my hazy thoughts. I froze, holding my breath and listening. The bedroom door opened and closed quickly, making the barest of noise as the tumbler eased back into place. A figure loomed in the darkness and rapidly approached the bed.

"What do we have here, hmm?" A deep voice mused before emitting a sharp curse, followed by the bump of legs against the edge of the mattress. I kicked off the blankets just in time for the hard line of a body to collide with mine. The intruder grunted in surprise, hands reaching out to either steady or grasp, but I roughly pushed away, putting a hairsbreadth between us for my escape. I found the doorknob in the darkness, twisting sharply before the intruder could stop me. I fell into the study on my hands and knees, letting loose a blood-curdling scream.

"Miss Baines? What the devil is wrong?"

Watson's alarmed voice came from across the study, from where he had leapt from his awkward position on the settee. He moved quickly through the dark to switch on the nearest lamp. Caden stumbled into the room just as a flame flickered to life, looking half-awake and uncertain of her whereabouts. I took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up.

Sherlock Holmes stood at least a handful of inches above 6" in a wrinkled black suit. The buttons of his waistcoat were undone, as were most of buttons to his shirt. His eyes were sharp and calculating and blue-gray. His dark hair was slicked back and curled along the top of his color. The hard line of muscles I had collided into did not translate into the straight form I was seeing, but I didn't doubt that he was more toned than he appeared. I felt a blush spreading across my cheeks when I realized he knew that I was giving him the once-over. For a moment I thought I might be forming a crush on Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective. And then he parted his lips, dispelling the illusion with all the tact of a bucket of ice water.

"I hope you have an explanation, my good fellow. I am certain our landlady would not approve of having women of…_questionable_ occupations within her residence."

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**Author's note**: As I currently write the very first draft of this chapter, I can't help sniffing my friend's Harry Potter scarf. I know that sounds rather peculiar, but it smells delightful. The only thing that creeps me out is that it belongs to my guy friend. Are guy's supposed to smell delightful? Let me rephrase that: are straight guy's supposed to smell delightful? I'm talking, skipping in green fields, with pop music, delightful. If that description does not frighten you away, I'm not quite sure I've accomplished my job. Rats.

Critique is really welcome, but flames are not. You will not like this fic is you are not a fan of the time travel trope.

Add. This is the third edited version of this chapter.

**Editor's note**: Why do I always have to put a note? She always leaves a spot like this here for me. One of these times I'm just going to put 'no'. My dad's making hamburgers and I'm wondering if I could possibly eat one. I've been ridiculously sick as of late and I'm just now getting over it. Also, I've had so much apple juice I'm sick of it. And I've seen this episode of Project Runway before. But there isn't anything else on. Wow, I'm such a whiner. Not the point.


	2. We're Not in Kansas

**Disclaimer:** I do not claim ownership over Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's _Sherlock Holmes_. Furthermore, I do not claim affiliation with Doctor Who, Cambridge University, and Chuck Palahniuk's _Lullaby_.

**Warnings**: mild cursing.

**Chapter two: We're Not in Kansas**

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"_The things you think are the disasters in your life are not the disasters really. Almost anything can be turned around: out of every ditch, a path, if you can only see it."_ —Bring Up the Bodies, Hilary Mantel

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**3 April 1884, London, England**

"I hope you have an explanation, my good fellow. I am certain our landlady would not approve of having women of…_questionable_ occupations within her residence."

My jaw might as well have hit the floor, because I could not have been more shocked. I hadn't placed any expectations on meeting Sherlock Holmes, but I never would've imagined he would mistakenly deduce I was a prostitute. I stared at him with my mouth opening and closing, flabbergasted. Sherlock Holmes' gaze made me feel naked, vulnerable, as if I was stripped down to my knickers. A little voice in the back of my head chimed in to insist that he wouldn't even care if I were sitting in the nude. He might even have the cheek to look bored. If my face hadn't already been flaming, it certainly was now. "Er, I'm not a prostitute if that is what you are insinuating. And even if I was a prostitute, I take great strides in supporting women rights. Sex workers are people too, you know. You shouldn't look down your nose at people with '_questionable_' professions."

"You certainly could have fooled me." Sherlock arched an eyebrow, glancing over Caden's jeans. "If I am not mistaken, such…_fashions_ are not in mode."

Caden made a rude gesture, which earned shocked silence from Watson and Holmes.

There was a shuffling noise from the stairwell and then the adjoining door swung open to reveal Mrs. Hudson in her nightclothes. Sherlock Holmes pressed his lips together, sneering silently at Caden.

"What in heaven's is this commotion for? I have been nothing but respectful of your wishes Doctor Watson, but this is simply the last straw." Mrs. Hudson drew up short when she came face-to-face with the occupants of the study. For a moment she glanced at each of us, her features clouding. She seemed to make up her mind when her gaze finally landed on Holmes, but he cut her off with a flippant wave.

"Mrs. Hudson, if you would be so kind, would you brew us a pot of tea? It seems we shall not be sleeping anytime soon to-night. Our guests have a case that I feel obliged to learn the particulars of."

"I wish that you gave me warning before you returned home. I need more than a vague note with scribbled instructions!" She gave a long-suffering sigh, but acquiesced to his request.

Watson had the forethought to close the door behind his landlady before gesturing for Caden and I to take seats. He belted his robe tightly around his middle, and went to work building a fire in the fireplace. Sherlock Holmes shuffled around his workstation, coming up with a pipe, which he lit as he claimed the high-backed chair.

"We're from the future!" I blurted out, unthinkingly. There was a sharp smack across the back of my head, and I turned to see Caden scowling darkly at me.

"Pray tell, how is that possible?" Holmes lowered his pipe from his lips, momentarily caught off guard. I took a second to savor his expression, relishing the surprise that he did not immediately suppress. _Yes_, I wanted to say, _that's right_. _You never would have deduced this outcome_.

"Holmes!" Watson's incredulous voice drew our attention. "I know you are fond of games, but you can't be serious. I don't know what sort of nonsensical game -."

"Wait! I don't know how this is bloody possible, or if I'm having the weirdest dream of my life. I don't have all the answers, and I can't explain the semantics of time travel. The only thing I know for certain is that we're from the year 2011, and I'd much rather discover this was a terrible nightmare brought on by too many _Doctor Who_ episodes before bedtime."

"Then let me assure you that this is not a dream." Holmes leaned back into his chair and crossed his long legs, resting his chin into the palm of a hand. "May I have an introduction, if you please?"

"I'm Audrey Baines, Arby for short."

"Caden Maddock." She mock-saluted Holmes.

"State your case, Miss Baines. Leave not detail unmentioned."

"Right. Okay. I was talking on my mobile - er - when I tripped, and then I was suddenly on the settee with this bump." I pointed at my forehead, where the bump was painfully red against my skin. Caden made a sympathetic noise, and reached over to pat my shoulder.

"I was leaving the library when I rang Audrey, which is to say I contacted her with my mobile - a telephone. An eejit nearly ran me down with his bike, and I fell backwards onto the steps. That's when I landed here, where your fucking staircase tried to kill me."

"To clarify, you were in different locations when you both experienced a sudden fall?" Holmes nodded to himself, not bothering to wait for a response. "Do you have any proof to support your account?"

"Wait just a tic." Caden disappeared into Watson's room only to reappear with her satchel and a grin on her face. She fished around the bottom of her bag, and procured a beaten black wallet. With a flourish, she flipped open the wallet and passed it along to Watson's outstretched hand. He stared down at the little plastic card within, Caden's smug smile looking up at him from her license.

"That card is my license to drive, and the other is my ID for the university's library. The issue is dated clearly on the right hand corner, if that is what you are looking for."

"Caden Maddock: 5'10", hazel eyes, blonde hair, born on 2 January 1988. You're twenty-three?" Watson paused, his eyebrows darting up. "You are a student of Cambridge University!"

"Cambridge has opened its doors to the fairer sex?" Holmes voice was dry, sarcastic.

Caden and I gave him matching looks of equals parts horror and revulsion. She slowly lifted her middle finger, lips pursed. I crossed my arms, and took a deep breath. "I'll let that one slide this time, because you're a _Victorian_. The next misogynistic comment that passes your lips will earn a lecture."

Watson passed the wallet back to Caden a moment later, clearly impressed. Holmes turned his attention to the other contents in her bag. After a few minutes of riffling through he pulled out a rather beaten notebook and an equally beaten copy of Chuck Palahniuk's _Lullaby_. He turned his attention to the notebook, idly flipping through the tattered pages. The pages were filled with notes, scribbles, doodles, phone numbers, dates, and bent sticky notes. Several of the crinkled pages threatened to fall out as he perused the scratchy handwriting, but he kept a hold of them as he looked.

Watson, who had been quiet during the proceedings, cleared his throat. "What do you make of this, Holmes?"

"I have observed that you are not entirely familiar with your surroundings, that while you recognize certain objects, you are not accustomed to seeing them so often, or using them." Holmes addressed us, looking up from the notebook. "You have identifications cards with dates that have not come to be, and the copyright date to your novel is 2002. You are dressed in unfamiliar fashions, and even your language is slightly different, brief. My deductions come to one conclusion: you are telling the truth."

I choked. Sherlock Holmes mannerisms were rhythmic and poised and his assertion had struck a nerve, because I was suddenly on the floor, blinking in and out of consciousness. My brain was finally catching up, finally latching onto the truth I had tried to avoid: I wasn't dreaming, this wasn't the 21st century, and I was sitting across from a fictional detective. Sherlock Holmes was real. Doctor John Watson was real. Mrs. Hudson was real. 221B Baker Street was real. And I was gasping for air, my vision tunneling.

"Take slow, deep breaths. Holmes, fetch the smelling salts! By God man, move!" I blinked and Watson was cradling my head in the crook of his arm, Caden's worried eyes and pale blonde hair swimming in the edge of my vision. I tried to croak out that I was fine, I could breathe just fine, but my vocal cords weren't working. Caden prodded my face with her nails, smoothing back my hair and murmuring something about my being a complete and utter ninny. Mrs. Hudson appeared over Watson's shoulder, clutching at an empty tea tray as her lips formed words I couldn't make out. It wasn't long before Holmes came into sight carrying a small box full of glass vials, uncorking one of them and thrusting it at Watson. The vial was promptly shoved up one of my nostrils, and before I knew it I was doubled over, coughing violently.

"What the hell is in that thing? Moldy blancmange?"

"Ammonium carbonate and crystalline solid." Watson smiled at me. "Feeling better, Miss Baines?"

"Oi, luv, you're going to fit right in." Caden pinched my cheek, grinning. She looked almost gleeful.

"Piss," I wheezed, "off."

"Language!" Mrs. Hudson's scandalized tone was ignored, but I attempted an apologetic smile. It came out watery and strained.

Caden and Watson took sides and helped me into the armchair, lips twitching back smiles as I grumbled under my breath. I settled in with an indignant huff, and discovered Holmes was watching me from across the room. Already feeling exhausted and angry, I narrowed my eyes at him. "Should I stand for inspection, or can you see from there?"

"I can see perfectly from here, Miss Baines."

"Brilliant. Feel free to start the detecting." I slumped back into the chair, looking all but four and petulant. Mrs. Hudson glanced warily at me, but left to retrieve the tea. Holmes started when she was safely out of earshot.

"Your full name is Audrey Rene Baines, and you are twenty-three years of age. You have reading spectacles, but you often forget to wear them. You fidget with your sleeves, especially when they reach any father than your wrist. The sweater that you are wearing was only just put on before your transition, but you have worn it many times in the past. You have a habit of walking in heels, very _high_ heels, and you briefly attended ballet. You spend a great deal of time hunched over, reading, which has affected your posture. And you often stay up late into the night with a book."

I blinked once, twice, thrice, feeling distinctly unnerved. I had expected his observations to be dead-on, but I had still been caught off guard. "Right. Anything else?"

"Ah, I believe it's my turn to be inspected." Caden gave Holmes a toothy smile, eyes dipping down to his butt. I glanced as well, appreciating the view.

He wasted no time launching into his second observation. "You are well versed with the piano, and you have also taken ballet lessons. You have coloured your hair recently, but your current shade is your natural colour. You also have a habit of staying awake late, but I suspect it is for different reasons than Miss Baines'. Your interest is in journalism, not detecting, and you have an apt mind. You have a slight Scottish burr, but you are a London native. You have French on your mother's side, a grandmother, or a great-grandmother. You spent many happy summers in France with family, but your father was not around. He died when you were a little girl, before you could form an attachment."

"Spot on! You're certainly the thinking machine I imagined." Caden gave Holmes a cheerful thumbs-up, but her smile died away when she realized her mistake.

"Ah! We have hit the heart of the matter." Holmes arched a brow, looking interested. Watson glanced from Caden to Holmes, but bit back any questions that he had.

"You'll be pleased to learn that Watson's accounts of your cases will become classics. Literature students and crime investigators will study your adventures for ages!" She grinned enthusiastically.

"Holmes, did you hear that? Classics!" Watson clapped his hands together, and eyed his desk with a delighted smile.

"The only catch is that you do not write about us, or of our existence in your time. We were never mentioned in any of your cases, and I think you should keep it that way." I watched as Watson's twinkle diminished a bit. "You've got to understand that even the smallest of slip-ups could upend the future as we know it."

Watson looked at me, then to Caden. He swallowed, and nodded. "I understand. This case shall remain a private matter."

"What case?" Holmes' voice cut in. He looked at his companion, brows raised once again. "Their visit will hardly be a hiccup in our lives."

"Right. About that." I caught his attention and nearly flinched. The look he sent my way clearly stated on no uncertain terms was I to broach the subject he knew I was heading toward. Nevertheless, I plowed on. "We've no place to go, and no money to survive on."

"You can hardly expect to stay here. Watson," he paused. "Remove that expression from your face."

But Watson recognized our predicament. Caden and I were university-educated women from the future with only the clothes on our backs and no foreseeable connection to this point in time. We were young, unmarried, without family, and unaccustomed to hard labor. We could not seek jobs without proper clothing, nor could we ever hope to rise in society without good connections. We were adrift in a time where women were fighting to be taken seriously, fighting for their rights, and there were little to no safe positions for them. Caden's French and my wish-washy Italian were hardly what made good CV's for governesses.

"We can work something out, right? We can stay?" Caden leaned forward with a business-like tone. Holmes acknowledged the change with a small inclination of his head.

"I propose we draw up a short term contract with rules and regulations pertaining to our stay in 221b."

"I am listening, Miss Maddock." Holmes didn't look pleased.

"Audrey and I are educated. Audrey is a social anthropology major with some acting ability, and I am majoring in journalism with a minor in linguistics. We can potentially become assets, _tools_ for your cases. We can be as quiet as church mice, and we require little to no assistance in daily life. You won't even know we're here!"

"Hmm."

"Think about it this way: Audrey and I are from the future. We have knowledge that you will never otherwise acquire in your lifetime, information that you might make use of."

Holmes went to the window, thinking. Caden and I looked from his back to Watson's apprehensive expression, waiting for him to decide. I knew that he would have to give in, or even if he didn't, Watson would overrule him. "Female companionship is a distraction that I cannot tolerate." He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. "But it would be foolish to let this opportunity slip through my fingers."

I stretched out my hand and smacked it against Caden's, grinning foolishly. I offered my hand to Watson, who gave it an awkward swat. Holmes made an aggrieved noise, and went back to his pipe. There would be time enough to get them accustomed to our modern mannerisms.

We agreed as a whole to tentatively broach the subject with Mrs. Hudson, who as it turned out took our new residency and questionable 'pasts' in stride. She clucked and fretted over having both males and females in residence, but with a bit of coaxing she accepted that our presence would not tarnish our reputations. Caden and I were hardly in search of marriage prospects, despite what Mrs. Hudson thought. In all likelihood we would either become spinsters, or be returned to our time, where society was more open-minded. Caden made remarks about 'poncy gits' and 'equal rights,' earning a smile out of the older woman.

"I might have an idea." I hesitantly raised an idea that had been circling around in my head since Caden had mentioned my experience with acting.

"You either have an idea, or you do not. Kindly choose." Holmes had started to tire of us as the discussion of our presence wore on.

"We could disguise ourselves as men!"

Watson's eyebrows darted up his forehead. Mrs. Hudson gaped unbecomingly. Caden gave a silent nod of approval. Holmes was the only one not to visibly react. "What purpose would that serve?"

"Caden and I are accustomed to dressing very differently than the women of this time, and I can only assume how much it would cost to purchase appropriate clothing. If we occasionally disguised ourselves, like when we went out, we would be protecting our reputations. The disguises would allow us to roam more freely, and no one would have to know 221b has females in residence. As men we would be able to come along on more cases without drawing the same attention we would as women." I ticked off the pros on my fingers, mulling over the possibilities.

"You've left out that we would look fit as men." Caden waggled her eyebrows. We looked away from each other, smothering giggles.

"I do not believe it would be proper of two young ladies to dress as men, but…I suppose the idea does have some merit. Mrs. Hudson? Holmes?" Watson's voice held an edge of incredulity.

Mrs. Hudson's mouth drew into a thin line. She stayed silent for several minutes before speaking. "T'isn't proper for young ladies to be dressed as lads, but Miss Baines has the right of it."

Watson and Mrs. Hudson turned to Holmes, but his silence was confirmation enough. He gave a short nod. "Miss Maddock and Miss Baines would do well to disguise themselves. Very clever of you, Miss Baines."

I couldn't help but grin a little, feeling triumphant. All in all, I suspected that Caden and I were going to survive life at 221b Baker Street just fine.

* * *

**Author's note**: Wow! I can't believe it has been so long since I've updated this fic! You might have noticed that I have taken down chapters three and four, and that I have replaced the first two chapters with new content. Well, I'm pretty excited to announce that I will be rewriting and revising this story. You'll also notice a lot of mistakes, because I am posting without an editor. I hope that everyone (old readers and new) will stick with At the Beginning as it goes through its fourth revival!


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